


How Unfortunate, Dear Bard

by what_a_dork_fish



Series: The Unfortunate Tales of The Succubus Boi [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, But Make It Fluff, Fluff, I Tried, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, M/M, Minor Injuries, Only One Bed, They're both bastards, Worried Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, look I haven't finished the first season but I don't CARE, this is way too long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23388439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: The thing is, Jaskier didn't MEAN for this to happen...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Unfortunate Tales of The Succubus Boi [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684639
Comments: 26
Kudos: 480





	How Unfortunate, Dear Bard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ag3nta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ag3nta/gifts).



> For my besties Amanda and Cait. You got me into this mess, the pair of you. You will reap what you have sown.
> 
> Also: I don't know how to Monster so I just made shit up lol sorry

Jaskier was planning another ballad when Geralt came back to the cave, drooping, but for once only bloodied, not covered in offal. Jaskier grinned, and kept humming, unable to help feeling smug.

“Hmm,” Geralt said, and collapsed beside the fire and the tiny pot propped over it on sticks. Jaskier had done his best to make soup, but there wasn’t much he could do with monster-meat, no matter what Geralt said about its edibility. Also traveling bards rarely have to cook for two.

Jaskier cleared his throat as Geralt reached for his bowl, and at Geralt’s glare, said, “There is a very nice pool at the back of this cave that you said was clear of monsters and such. Since it’s safe for drinking, I’m assuming it’s safe for washing off blood and grime. It’s a wonder you don’t have constant stomach aches.”

Geralt scowled, but got up and went to the pool and pulled up a bucket of water to wash his hands. Jaskier kept talking, more to fill the silence than anything else. Roach at least was listening, nodding in her corner.

“You know, I was thinking, since you’re learning to be cleaner, are you feeling less crotchety? Or is it truly age that made you this way? I myself have noticed that being unwashed for days on end is quite disheartening, although you probably don’t even notice. You’re terrible at washing, by the way. Last time you forgot under your fingernails and it’s only luck that it was dirt and not the fecal matter of whatever monster you’d had to disembowel.”

Geralt stood and shook his hands to get off excess water. Jaskier watched out of the corner of his eye and envied the fluid movements, even when the Witcher was tired. What grace, balance, strength… too bad he’d already written two ballads like that already and Geralt hadn’t even twitched.

“It’s quite sad,” Jaskier continued, tuning his lute gently and strumming it a bit, to make sure it was right. “Whatever that lovely woman at the last inn saw in you is beyond me.” It was just his pride that was hurt, truly. It was jealousy that she had chosen Geralt, not… well. “You smelled like a goat that had bathed in a—”

Geralt shoved his hands in Jaskier’s face. “Clean enough for you?” he grunted, looking grumpy. But then, he was always grumpy.

Jaskier took this interruption in stride, and inspected the palms presented with the snootiest air he could muster. He reached up with both his own hands to turn Geralt’s over to inspect the backs. Calloused, rough, a little too warm, but nice hands.

Jaskier made a little noise of surprise. “You remembered your fingernails! Amazing. You’re learning.” He kissed the backs of Geralt’s fingers, let go, leaned back—then realized what he’d done, and froze.

Geralt was still standing stooped beside him, hands out. He seemed to have become locked like a statue. Jaskier did not dare look up, his face growing quite warm. He hadn’t meant to do that. Truly he hadn’t. He fumbled his lute back into his grip and started plucking at it again, but he couldn’t find a tune like usual.

Geralt still hadn’t moved.

“You know the food’s getting cold,” Jaskier said, a little too loudly, too nervous to look up. He tried to concentrate on his music, but Geralt was still looming and his breath was so quiet but warm… and he smelled disgusting. Jaskier reminded himself sternly that he had made a pact many decades ago to never flirt with smelly people ever again.

But finally, after much too long, Geralt straightened, walked to his side of the fire, and sat. Jasker fiddled with his lute and tried to think of something to say… but he really was at a loss. He certainly couldn’t apologize, that would be admitting… what? That it had been instinctual? What kind of man has the instinct to kiss a Witcher willingly?

His hands smelled like death even when clean. Or maybe that was simply what Jaskier had expected.

Eventually he calmed enough to find a tune, and only then did he notice that, while Geralt had picked up his bowl and filled it, he had not eaten yet. Jaskier chanced a glance. Geralt was brooding at his bowl, not angry, just… puzzled. Jaskier had learned his moods a little and was strangely relieved at this lack of animosity. However, he still wasn’t eating.

“What, not to your liking?” Jaskier asked, with mock indignation. “I worked damn hard on that soup. Ask Roach!”

Roach raised her head and nodded vigorously. Jaskier had to grin at her. He still wasn’t sure how much she understood. Maybe she was just feeling playful.

When he looked back to Geralt again, the Witcher was staring at him, still with that puzzled frown, like he couldn’t make Jaskier out and was annoyed at that.

“Do you need glasses now?” Jaskier asked, cheeks warming again. “I’m still the same, you know. Eat your dinner, you’ve earned it.”

“You’re not the same.”

Jaskier scowled. “Of course I am! How can I have changed since you walked in?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Geralt replied flatly. Jaskier blinked. “You’re not the same as when we first met. You’re not the same as when we started traveling the same routes. You look the same, you smell the same, but you’re different, and I don’t know how. I don’t know how I missed it, either.”

Jaskier sniffed haughtily to hide his uneasiness. “Well, _I_ don’t think I’ve changed. Eat.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, but bent his head and ate. Jaskier hummed to himself, trying to get the pacing of the next line he’d written right. No, he’d have to replace ‘shining’ with some other word, or rearrange the whole thing. But he couldn’t think of anything.

Maybe he hadn’t smelled of death. Maybe he’d smelled like…

No. Stop thinking about it, Jaskier.

~

“A bed! Oh, at long last, a real bed!”

Geralt shot Jaskier a glare, but Jaskier was too excited as they approached the town. He actually started jumping a little, until he remembered that was undignified, as the public relations manager of the most famous Witcher on the continent.

There were no monsters in this town, but the people were intrigued, and the innkeeper offered them the best room in the inn. The exchange was half the price of boarding, Jaskier’s bardic services, and a few Witcher tales.

Geralt frowned when the innkeeper said that, and Jaskier surprised himself with the fear that Geralt would insist on separate, cheap rooms, at full price, with Jaskier singing and Geralt fucking. It’d happened before. It hadn’t bothered Jaskier before… maybe he was just very tired and wanted that good bed.

“Fine,” Geralt said, then added with a fiercer scowl, “And baths.”

“Right ye are! Peony will show ye to yer rooms!”

Rooms? Plural? Well, not surprising, of course no one would assume they were… um… Jaskier thrust that thought under a rock and just smiled flirtatiously at Peony, who was probably thirty and quite lovely. She blushed, smiled back, and led them up the stairs, Jaskier before Geralt.

It _was_ two rooms—one bedroom and one attached bathing room. Peony promised to have some water sent up for baths, and smiled as Jaskier cried, “A _bed_!” and threw himself on it, going boneless as the mattress took his weight. He barely heard Geralt and Peony speaking at the door, and definitely didn’t hear Geralt’s footsteps as he approached.

“Get up, bard,” Geralt commanded. “You’re dirtying the blankets.”

“I don’t care,” Jaskier retorted, muffled because his face was half-buried in the coverlet. “God how I’ve missed real beds.”

Geralt didn’t reply, which wasn’t unusual. But there was a different quality to his silence than most times Jaskier let his spoiled side show. Then there was the jingle of metal, the scrape of leather, and the heavy thunks of armor and weapons being placed on the floor.

“Do you want the first bath?” Geralt asked, which was so out of character that Jaskier raised his head, blinking dumbly. Usually, Geralt went first without asking; Jaskier had accepted this. But Geralt had put on his most stoic and unreadable glower, so Jaskier said carefully, “No, thank you. Since when do you ask?”

Geralt didn’t answer, just turned away and sat on the floor to clean his weapons.

It took three boys of varying ages carrying large buckets of steaming water to fill the tub, and Jaskier, who had planted his face in the bed again, waved a languid hand when Geralt cleared his throat. So Geralt took the first bath, and went downstairs to tell the innkeeper that the bard wished a bath as well.

Another long succession of buckets, and then Jaskier peeled himself off the bed, set his lute tenderly on the covers, and went to the bathing room to scrape the grime from his skin.

It was wonderful, actually, resting in warm water and washing his hair with real soap. How long had they been on the road? Surely not that long, only a few weeks. But cold baths in rivers don’t make one feel _clean_ , only less filthy.

At last, at _last_ , he could put on clean clothes and drift downstairs, lute slung across his back, to entertain with his newest ballads and maybe get a good meal. Geralt was already lurking in a corner, brooding, and Peony led Jaskier to the place of pride near the fire, where he was given the first tasty hot meal he’d had in weeks. And then, urged and encouraged by the crowd, he performed, and made everyone laugh, and sing along, and stamp and drink and have a good time.

This was always the best part. Not even beds and baths and good wholesome food could replace the rush of making people happy.

Geralt’s eyes never left Jaskier, and Jaskier felt a little strange that he didn’t mind at all.

Some money to Peony as he rested for a drink and she promised to have his clothes laundered. But as soon as his throat and mouth were lubricated, and he’d gotten a few more hearty slaps on the back, he got up again and sang some more. These were easy songs, songs for drunks, and by the time the innkeeper came to throw everyone out, there were more smiles and laughs than quarrels.

Jaskier felt… invigorated, as well as tired. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed performing. But he thanked the staff cheerfully and climbed the stairs for the night ready to lay down on that wonderful bed and disappear into its soft embrace.

Geralt was already there, standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed and the puzzled frown back.

“Geralt! White Wolf! Witcher!” Jaskier bounded forward to pat Geralt’s face heartily, making him blink and jerk back. “God, did you see the crowd tonight?! That was the best crowd in years! Oh, I feel sixteen again, fresh out of school!” Jaskier skipped away to tenderly lean his lute in the corner, then turned with a flourish and bowed deeply to his startled companion. “You’re welcome for the good PR, by the way,” he added with a grin as he straightened. “They’ll surely be singing that new one for weeks yet!”

“You have changed,” Geralt interrupted bluntly.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Geralt, I’m still Jaskier, bard, companion to Ger—”

“You’re becoming something.”

Jaskier paused, smile fading a little, blinking owlishly at Geralt. “...What?”

Geralt was frowning again, harder. “You are becoming something. You’re not human anymore. How long have you been a bard?”

“Oh, a good thirty years or so, now.”

“How have you not aged past, say, twenty-five?”

Jaskier blinked again, and his arms dropped. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “I… I haven’t?”

“No.”

There was a silence. The man next door had brought a woman to his bed. Jaskier wasn’t sure why the sound should be audible; this was too strange for such silly noises.

He hadn’t aged? Yes… now that he thought about it… his father had gone silver-haired at forty, and yet Jaskier, who had begun his career at eighteen, still had dark hair. And he was sure he had reckoned right. Thirty. Thirty, give or take, and he was still… like this.

“What… do you know why?” he asked, in a voice gone all thin and quiet.

“No,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier looked at the floor. No…

“But I have guesses. Tell me, Jaskier, how did it feel, tonight? Entertaining those people?”

“It felt wonderful,” Jaskier replied automatically, head rising. “It felt… exuberant. Like getting drunk, only without the loss of control. They were _happy_ , Geralt.”

“Because _you_ were happy.” Geralt walked forward a few paces, arms still crossed, staring at Jaskier intently. “You were happy, and that got out and made _them_ happy.”

Now Jaskier was even more disturbed, and not because of Geralt’s decreasing distance. Geralt wouldn’t kill him. Not unless—until… “But that’s magic, and I don’t have any.”

“You didn’t have magic.” Geralt uncrossed his arms and reached out to tilt Jaskier’s head up a little. “But succubi have plenty.”

Jaskier gaped at him. “I’m not a succubus!” he protested, suddenly afraid. “Just because I like sex—!”

“Succubi don’t need just sex. Succubi feed on emotion, control it. You wanted the crowd to be happy, so they were.” Geralt narrowed his eyes at Jaskier and added, “A succubus isn’t always created. Sometimes they’re changed. Something happened to you, and now you’re—”

“How do you know?!” Jaskier yanked away, and ran into the corner. “How did you _not_ know?!”

“Even Witchers can get too accustomed to a scent. It took watching you perform, transmuting energy and emotion, to figure it out.”

Jaskier really wanted to cry right about then, but he wasn’t sure he could. “Is there no other explanation?” he asked, voice breaking.

Geralt shook his head.

Jaskier dropped his gaze to the floor again. Well. So he was changing. Something had happened, and now he’d been cursed or whatever. Would he become the creature from legend? Would he turn into a monster that fed on the life force of humans?

Would Geralt have to kill him?

“What do I do?” he asked softly.

“Figure it out. Succubi aren’t like humans or elves; their magic doesn’t follow the same rules. I can’t help you with this.”

“What _can_ you help me with?”

A very tense pause followed. Then Geralt said softly, “I swear, if it ever needs to be done—and there is always the chance that it won’t—I will make it painless.”

Jaskier closed his eyes tightly and screwed up his face and tried to get used to the idea that his days as a relatively humanoid being were numbered. But he couldn’t. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Geralt didn’t smell like death when he stepped softly forward and put his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, pulling him away from the wall. “Come on. Just go to bed. We can talk more in the morning.”

~

The grey, fuzzy time before dawn wasn’t exactly ‘morning’, but Jaskier was awake, staring at the ceiling, shivering as he hugged himself under the heavy blanket.

Geralt, the fucker, was dead asleep, his pendant twisted around his neck but apparently not enough to wake him. Jaskier was trying not to look at him because he was beginning to feel and think things that he’d been trying very hard not to.

Like kissing Geralt’s hand. Like being jealous when he won a girl’s favor. Like hoping, desperately, that he could keep his foul succubus-ing to merely making people happy. That would be fine, right? Just making people happy? Not taking their life force or their seed, just… making them happy with his music?

Geralt woke very suddenly, raising his head, and Jaskier immediately shut his eyes and tried to pretend he was sleeping.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s usual growl was even raspier in the morning. “Stop pretending. You’re shit at it.”

Jaskier opened one eye and glared at Geralt, before turning over on his side away from his companion. He heard a heavy sigh, and thought it sounded resigned. He huddled down deeper under the blankets, trying to stop the whirlwind of distressing thoughts—and then he squeaked, as Geralt’s arm wrapped around his waist and his back was suddenly very warm as Geralt scooted closer. It was strange, because… well, because it was Geralt. Any other lovely muscular man, Jaskier would feel smug; but this was his friend, companion, the Witcher he’d come to trust more than any mere human. Who was currently holding him tightly, if a little stiffly, his breath hot on the back of Jaskier’s neck.

“Go back to sleep,” Geralt murmured. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Jaskier knew that. He’d always known that. But hearing it made something in his chest ease, and after a few more minutes, he relaxed enough to drift, and then fall asleep again.

~

It was far into the morning when Jaskier woke feeling cold.

Of course. Geralt was gone. Probably regretting giving Jaskier that much… what? Care? Hope? Warmth? Too confusing. Jaskier sat up, put his feet on the floor, and noticed that there was a serving tray with a bowl, a plate, and a mug on it, on the small table across from him. Since Geralt was not in evidence, Jaskier got up, got dressed, and sat at the table. Porridge, cold but edible; burnt toast, but with excellent butter; ale, watered; and a single boiled egg. Jaskier smiled and nibbled it as he stood and looked around the room. Geralt’s things were gone. Jaskier packed up his own things, finished the egg, slung his lute over his shoulder, and went downstairs feeling… better. A little annoyed that Geralt hadn’t stayed, but also understanding that Geralt was probably embarrassed.

The innkeeper beamed at Jaskier when he came down to the common room, and with a jolt of surprise, Jaskier _felt_ how the innkeeper’s mellow mood had risen at the sight of him. “Ye’ll be wanting to know where your friend went,” the innkeeper guessed, and at Jaskier’s nod, pointed in the general direction of the stables. “He said he’d pay for breakfast too, but I told him, ye did far more for my coffers by making my customers buy out my stock of wine than simply pay for breakfast. The look on his face!”

Jaskier laughed, because it was expected and also he was… in a good mood. Which was strange. “I can imagine! He’s no skinflint but he does like saving money. And at the same time he doubts my skills.” He shook his head in mock indignation and sighed theatrically. “Well, I’d better go see if he really does mean to carry on. Thank you, kind sir, for the use of your bed and bath!”

“Thank _ye_ , Songbird!”

Jaskier smiled and waved as he left, but as soon as the door had closed behind him, his smile faded. Songbird? He didn’t know if he liked that name.

“Jaskier.”

He turned with relief to Geralt, who was leading Roach, who bobbed her head at Jaskier. “So we’re leaving today, then? No searching for jobs? No sniffing out rogue sorcerers?”

“No. We need to move on.” And Geralt walked away, leading Roach.

Jaskier felt… hurt. He had no reason to be. He wasn’t sure why he was. So he put on a fake smile, told himself this was for the best, and followed Geralt.

It was constant, and made him uncomfortable. How turning his smile on others made them smile too, made them happy. Even faking it was magic. He almost couldn’t take it, but he couldn’t let himself drop the smile, in case that made people angry. There was a part of him that felt… well, felt _comfortable_ with this whole thing. The succubus part. The monster.

Thankfully, they were soon out of the town, and Geralt chose a road less frequently used. Jaskier was grateful. He dropped the smile, and his head, staring at his feet, one hand on Roach so he wouldn’t wander off.

They walked in silence for perhaps two miles before Geralt took a sharp turn and led the way off the road into a tame woodland. There was a stream; Roach drank gratefully, and Geralt turned to Jaskier, who finally looked up.

“I felt it,” he whispered. “I… I felt it. They were happy because I smiled. And I couldn’t stop smiling because what if that made them angry?”

“They wouldn’t have been angry,” Geralt told him, somehow more grim than usual. “Humans can’t be angry at succubi. They can be afraid, but such is a succubus’s power that humans cannot feel the urge to harm it.”

Jaskier rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Yes, he recalled the tales, now. Tales were rarely factual, as his years with Geralt had taught him, but succubi were so enrapturing—a creature who thrives on sex, of course most humans would find that interesting or frightening—that he was sure most of them were right. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he said, putting his hand down. He felt so tired all of a sudden. “I don’t want to… take from them. Except money. That’s all.”

Geralt nodded.

“So I should… practice. Practice only using this… this magic for things that won’t hurt people. I didn’t hurt anyone at that inn, did I?”

Geralt shook his head.

“Alright.” Jaskier nodded and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I’ll work on not hurting. I don’t know if I can help, but I can keep from harming.”

Geralt nodded again. He seemed pleased. That was nice. He was rarely pleased with Jaskier. This was a nice feeling.

Jaskier ran his hand through his hair, straightened his jacket, and said firmly, “Well, where shall we go now?”

“There’s a village down this road with a werewolf problem. That shouldn’t be hard to clean up.”

~

Of course that was a lie.

Jaskier tried to run, but the bandits had already blocked the escape. He drew his dagger that Geralt had taught him to use, and backed up, breathing hard. Geralt was off undoing the curse, and Jaskier had ended up running into a group of men hired to stop that from happening.

“He’ll definitely come back for his kept boy,” one bandit jeered, grinning. “Maybe we’ll even leave you as bait and let the werewolves have him.”

“He could kill fifty werewolves and still have the breath to kill you,” Jaskier retorted. The stink of unwashed bodies, dried blood, rotten food, anger, bloody triumph… he almost couldn’t breathe, and they weren’t even too close. There had to be something he could do. There had to be. He took a deep breath, missing the pressure of his lute-band—

Oh.

He blinked, then smiled, and sheathed his dagger. It was hard, hard to push through the rage pouring off these men like sweat in summer, but he stepped towards the leader, and put every ounce of will into his smile.

“Come now, lads,” he said soothingly, eyes on the leader, who looked suddenly uncertain. “Surely we can talk this out.” He spread his arms, and kept speaking, as he tried to push back the fear and anger choking him. “Let’s sit down, shall we? We’ll talk. I’ll be your bait, willingly, but you should remember that werewolves are hellishly strong and fast. If there’s more than one, and one is enough to kill ten armed men, what chance have we against more? Come now, let’s find a safe retreat, and talk about how to… trap these creatures. And when the sun comes, they will surely change back, and you can flee. The Witcher will be dead by morning if he can’t break the curse, and I know you’ve hidden the key well. We don’t need to fight. I’ll sing for you, if you like.” He kept his eyes on the leader, who now looked thoughtful. The anger from all sides had shut down, and now it was mostly just confusion. He could breathe again. He smiled as brightly as possible, and pushed for the leader to say yes.

The leader rubbed his scarred chin for a moment, then nodded sharply. “Aye. We’ll take you to our place. We’ll put you as bait whenever we like, and that damn Witcher will get hisself killed looking for you.”

“That’s the spirit!” Jaskier said cheerfully, though his insides were twisting. Oh, god, Geralt, please, please be safe…

And so they took him to their hideout, which was just a cave in the rocky hills. For a wonder, they did not tie him up, nor did they take his dagger. He kept his smile, and furiously thought up as many rude jokes and bawdy tales as he could. Something to keep these men distracted and entertained. Maybe Geralt could escape the werewolves, undo the curse, and—what? He would be injured, or at least tired. He wouldn’t be able to save Jaskier. Jaskier had no reason to stay alive much longer, except that he wanted to.

The cave was dank and dark, but he said nothing about that. Someone lit a torch, then walked around the cave lighting lamps before finally thrusting the torch into a pile of half-burned logs. The fire caught easily enough, and soon the cave was well-lit. Jaskier really wished it wasn’t. There was a collection of wolf-heads on spikes at the back, bloody banners on the wall, and the air was rotten with unwashed body and anger.

But when he was waved to a stone beside the fire, he sat and smiled at everyone as they gathered around. It was easier now, to make them relax, to make them feel confident and like they could… not trust him, precisely. Control him? Yes. He did his best to be cooperative, and to convince them that it wasn’t an act.

“So what now?” he asked brightly.

“Tell us some tales about the Witcher,” the leader said, crouching a few feet away. “Tell us his weaknesses.”

Jaskier rubbed his chin, musing, while inside he was scared shitless. “Weaknesses? Well, there aren’t many. He isn’t human, you know. He heals well, and fast, but not immediately. It is possible to tire him, and I’ve seen him close to death multiple times. It’s usually drawn out fights that do him in. He doesn’t like to kill anything that doesn’t need killing. He saved a striga, you know. Undid the curse, turned her back into a princess. She’s a queen now.”

“The Witcher,” someone urged angrily, and was hushed by his comrades.

Jaskier looked at them all, looked them all in the eyes… and felt something new. Something even newer than emotions.

Life.

At first, he was afraid. But… why not? They had wanted to kill him. They still wanted to kill Geralt. He wouldn’t kill them; just weaken them. Slow them down.

So slowly he wondered why they didn’t kill him for his silence, he open his hands, and imagined little streams of light coming from each of them to sink into his hands. They didn’t notice. He didn’t feel anything at first… but then he felt a surge in his chest, of heat, of strength. A part of him—the monster part—took this strength and put it into his smile, and his voice, and his will.

“There’s time yet. And you might forget by the time you must go to kill him. How about a few stories of creatures he’s killed, so you know his techniques?”

“Technique, aye, that’s a good idea,” someone grumbled.

“Speak, then,” the leader ordered.

“I’m not an adept speaker, but I can sing to you.”

“Sing, you fuckwit.”

Jaskier fought the urge to punch the man, straightened on his stone seat, and began to sing. The very first one he could think of. It just so happened to be the one about the striga, because that was one he’d managed to pry the details of out of Geralt. As always, the rush of performing swept aside all other feelings, and when that song was done, he immediately started in on the gruesome story of Geralt versus the princess of blood. That one was completely made up, but when he had shown it to Geralt, he’d gotten a rare look of surprise, and an even rarer nod of assent.

Jaskier felt his own happiness flow out into a hazy aura, infecting each brigand; in return for his happiness, they gave him their leniency. Then their trust. Then their adoration. Then their lives…

A harsh howl broke through his song, and he choked. The brigands scrambled to their feet, drawing their weapons. They would protect him, now. Protect him with their lives, which he’d already been feeding off of…

No one had heard him, but suddenly Geralt stepped into the firelight. His face was harder and fiercer than Jaskier had ever seen, and it was honestly frightening. Geralt’s gaze swept the cave, counting his foes, and then spotting Jaskier, perched on a rock behind them all.

“Let him go,” Geralt growled, and another howl rang out, closer.

“And let the wolves have him? Never!” snarled the brigand leader. “Go finish your quest, Witcher! He’s ours!”

Geralt’s eyes snapped back to Jaskier. Jaskier couldn’t take the accusation in those eyes, so he looked away, and hoped to god this wouldn’t end with all of them dead.

“The werewolves are after me. They won’t touch him,” Geralt lied.

The brigands hesitated, glancing between each other uncertainly. Jaskier swallowed hard.

The howls were closer.

Geralt took three long strides into the cave and threw something into the fire. It landed with a little shower of sparks, and suddenly the fire roared up so high it licked the roof of the cave. Jaskier gasped for breath, and saw all the brigands lurch towards Geralt, with the intent to kill.

There was no thought. There was no time. Geralt couldn’t kill them all and still fight the werewolves. Jaskier knew this.

So he reached out, and snared the life force of all of the brigands. He did it too fast; the power of it surged up his arm, slammed through his body, rattling his bones, strumming his sinew, destroying his flesh and knitting it together again. There was too much, he couldn’t hold it all, he was just a human, just a stupid human with no idea how to handle this power—

“JASKIER!”

He slid off the rock, to his hands and knees, and vomited up what felt like a lifetime of meals. Blood came up too, and blood filled his nose. This was too much power. Even as it killed him, it made him live. Endless death, endless rebirth, and pain, pain, pain—

He blacked out.

Came to over Geralt’s shoulder, limp, watching the ground fly past Geralt’s feet.

Blacked out again.

Came to on Roach, Geralt holding tight on to him, as they galloped somewhere.

Blacked out again.

Came to on a hard surface, an old man with no beard leaning over him.

Blacked out again…

~

Woke with something checking his pulse.

“Jaskier.”

He blinked, trying to see through the glaring light streaming through a window nearby. No use, it was too much; he turned his head, carefully, and saw Geralt holding his wrist, looking very intense and… no, it was gone. Now he was just angry.

“You did too much,” Geralt said shortly.

“I guessed,” Jaskier whispered. His throat ached, and his mouth tasted like rot. “The werewolves?”

“Broke the curse when I destroyed the poppet.”

“The…?”

“All dead.”

Jaskier didn’t know how to feel about that. He didn’t know how to feel at all. He was empty and he would’ve been scared of that, except he was too empty.

“Awake, Master Bard?”

Jaskier turned his head the other way. The little old man from earlier was standing there, with a cup of something. “Yes,” he said.

“Good. Help him up, Witcher. Drink this.”

Jaskier tried to push himself upright, but it was hard. Almost impossible. Thank god for Geralt, who leaned forward and lifted him with greater care than Jaskier had expected. His neck felt wobbly and his hands hurt, but Jaskier took the cup and drank. It was some kind of potion, he couldn’t tell what, though he thought he tasted lemon. It made the ache in his bones lessen.

“You’ll be wanting to gather your coin soon, Witcher,” the old man said. Jaskier looked at Geralt and blinked. He had never seen that much outraged anger in Geralt’s face. The old man continued, “They’ve found the dead, and the cursed girls. They think you ran off. Better go get your money. I’ll keep him safe.”

Geralt stayed very still for a moment. Jaskier watched thoughts and emotions flit across Geralt’s face, and wondered if he dared hope for Geralt to stay here. No, better to let him go collect his just reward. Maybe he should even leave without Jaskier. That’s what he’d wanted from the beginning after all.

“I’ll be back,” Geralt said, and let Jaskier gently back down, before standing abruptly and stomping out of the room.

Jaskier stared after him, surprised. Finally, emotions were returning to him. And the main one was horror at himself. At how he had just… known, how to do that. He didn’t really regret the action itself; it had kept Geralt alive. But how had he known?

The monster was growing. Now that he knew of it, it was growing. He felt sick. At least Geralt would make it painless. He kept his promises more often than humans.

“That there is a Witcher with emotions,” the little old man muttered. “Never thought I’d live to see the day. Give me that cup back, bard, and I’ll make you something to help you sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” Jaskier protested, though he handed over the cup. “Who are you, anyway?”

The old man smiled thinly. “Bert. I’m a healer. And you’re not the first half-human I’ve met.”

Jaskier blanched.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Bert admonished. “I haven’t lived to this age without knowing how to keep secrets. I’ll never tell that you’re not human. But it would behoove you to tell me just what you are, so I may treat you more easily.”

Jaskier bit his lip. Then he whispered, “Succubus.”

Bert simply nodded. “Ahh, yes. No wonder you recovered so well. I’ll get you that sleeping draught now.”

“But—”

Bert had already turned away, and Jaskier settled back, unsettled and unhappy and dearly wishing he’d never known about this monster part of him.

He wasn’t sure how long he was in Bert’s care, but he _was_ sure Geralt was getting restless. He visited Jaskier several times a day, and Bert told him in strictest confidence that he sometimes slept in the chair beside Jaskier’s bed. But Bert had demanded that, as payment for healing Jaskier, Geralt help around his little farm. It wasn’t hard work, but Geralt wasn’t used to it, and he seemed unable to stay away from the sickroom for too long.

The first time Geralt stayed away an entire day, Jaskier felt quite depressed, and tried to ignore Bert’s knowing glances. But the next morning, Jaskier woke to Geralt feeling his pulse. There was sweat on Geralt’s face, and Jaskier got the strangest feeling that Geralt had been dreaming.

“I’m alright,” he said softly.

“I know that,” Geralt grunted, but he didn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand for several moments.

~

On the day they left Bert’s home, Jaskier thanked him, and was surprised when Bert replied with a sly smirk, “It was a pleasure. Maybe now your friend the Witcher will calm down a little.”

“I certainly hope so,” Jaskier replied flippantly, mystified but determined to hide it. He wasn’t particularly surprised that Bert had known Geralt was upset. “Take care, Bert. Thank you again.”

The sun was quite hot as they trudged down the road, towards the plains. Jaskier kicked pebbles and hummed to himself, composing a sonnet about healers in his head. He couldn’t really think of anything to say. His mind kept wandering to the warmth of Geralt’s hands on his, rough callouses against his smoother wrist… which was a very unnecessary subject. So what if Geralt had been worried? He’d been worried before. It always made Jaskier preen a little, that Geralt worried about his traveling companion.

They hadn’t seen Yennefer in a while. Jaskier wondered if she’d be immune to him, like Geralt was. Probably. She was a sorceress, after all.

“Why aren’t you talking?”

Jaskier started and looked up, surprised. Geralt was frowning at him again, puzzled. Jaskier put on a roguish grin that he was sure Geralt saw right though. “Simply have nothing to say, o White Wolf,” Jaskier said cheerfully.

“Don’t call me that.”

“What shall I call you, then? Perhaps Slayer of Demons? Ooh, that would make a good song… have you slain any demons?”

For some reason, Geralt’s frown eased. “You’ve traveled with me long enough,” he replied bluntly. “You already know.”

“But I haven’t traveled with you since you began your career!” Jaskier protested, skipping a step closer as they walked and lightly slapping Geralt’s back. “Come on, inspire your poor bard! I’ve already done a song about werewolves.”

Geralt actually halted and turned to stare at him. “ _My_ bard?” he repeated, as if he didn’t understand.

“Yes!” Jaskier spread his arms and let them fall. “I’m your public relations manager, after all. I sing of your exploits! I write up your stories! Whose bard am I if not yours?”

“Your own.”

Jaskier huffed impatiently. “Oh, that’s right. You still don’t believe in people liking you enough to help you. How long do I have to follow you around for you to get the message?”

Too close, Jaskier.

Geralt blinked at him. He looked like he wanted to answer, but eventually all he did was turn away and start walking again.

Jaskier scowled but followed.

Eventually he got bored and started pestering Geralt about plants and herbs, so he could have a rhyme for ‘rosemary’, but Geralt seemed more on edge, though he answered readily enough (meaning he either grunted, gave three-word answers, or ignored the question). Jaskier wondered, but now that he had started, he wasn’t sure he could stop.

They stopped by a stream so Roach could have a drink and Jaskier could have a piss (honestly, when _did_ Geralt rid himself of all that ale?), and then sat down for lunch. Jaskier laid on his stomach next to the stream to better listen to it and eat his cold, hard bread. He was thinking about nothing in particular, humming around swallows of bread, when Geralt’s gloved hand appeared in front of his nose to pluck one of the tiny flowers growing from the ground. Jaskier was forcefully reminded of the warmth of those hands.

“These are cap-drops,” Geralt said, and Jaskier perked up, sensing a conversation. “You can distill these with the blood of a cat and create a powerful poison that kills with just three drops. Also called blesinary. There’s your rhyme.”

“Blesinary, rosemary, rosemary, blesinary…” Jaskier hummed to himself for a moment, then sang a few lines under his breath, before frowning. “No, the syllables are off. I’ll rearrange that stanza. Any more pearls of wisdom, o Slayer of Demons?”

“Yes. There’s an ant on your bread.”

“OH, EW!”

Geralt might have smiled.

That night, they had to pitch camp on the open fields. Geralt didn’t like that, and insisted on finding a dip in the landscape to hide in. Jaskier sighed heavily but helped scout. He actually found a significant scar in the earth, the grass dense and the nettles few. Geralt eyed it, sniffed the air, then deemed it acceptable. Roach, placid as she was, didn’t care. Jaskier set out the bedrolls and blankets while Geralt chose the meal; nothing could be cooked out here, since there didn’t seem to be any wood, but there were enough victuals to last a while. Or at least until the next town.

They ate in silence, and then Geralt stretched out on his bedroll and stared at the sky with half closed eyes. Jaskier amused himself with thinking up new constellations, before falling deeply asleep.

He dreamed of warm hands and warm lips…

When he woke, he was grumpy. He had _liked_ that dream. There had been nothing more than melting into a kiss that had seemed to last an eternity, but he had _liked_ it, for fuck’s sake.

Geralt was already eating breakfast and staring at Jaskier. This wasn’t new. Geralt would stare anything while he was thinking. Jaskier grimaced and sat up, and his stomach rumbled. He looked to Geralt again. He was still staring at Jaskier, frowning.

“What?” Jaskier asked irritably. “Are there bugs in my hair?”

“No.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“You said my name.”

Jaskier blinked. “I did not.”

“You did. Why were you dreaming about me?”

His cheeks were feeling quite warm in the cool dawn air. “I wasn’t! Don’t be so self-centered.” He looked around jerkily, then asked, “Is it even worth it to dig a trench?”

“Probably. Just remember to cover it when you’re done.”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

Clouds rolled up slowly as they kept walking. Jaskier couldn’t see a town for miles, although there were definitely hills up ahead, and the road was straight as an arrow. He looked up as the sun was blotted out, and said glumly, “Lovely, now we’re going to be soaked as well as exhausted.”

Something made of heavy, stinking cloth smacked into his shoulder, and he yelped and stumbled, catching it before it could fall in the dirt. Geralt’s cloak. He looked across Roach’s back, surprised, but Geralt wasn’t looking at him. He was scowling harder than usual, though.

Jaskier slung the cloak over himself and was surprised to realize it smelled like fresh grass and lavender as well as dirt and sweat. He pulled up the hood—and the rain began.

Poor Roach was soaked in seconds, and Geralt looked even more grumpy; but Jaskier was (mostly) dry under the cloak, and actually nicely warmed. The cloak even covered his lute-case slung on his back. He wondered if Geralt could even hear him over the thunder and the sound of lashing rain…

Lightning struck, very close, and both Jaskier and Roach shied, Roach throwing her head up and neighing, Jaskier letting out a sound that was _not_ a shriek. Geralt didn’t seem to notice, besides stopping to soothe Roach, before they went on again.

There was a sudden dip in the plain, and a few abandoned buildings. A few might have been barns; one was a sturdy little house of stone and wood, half-sunk in the ground. Geralt led Roach to the least dilapidated barn, and Jaskier scampered to keep up.

The barn was free of animals; in fact it was empty, save for one bale of hay, rotting in the corner. The roof was solid, and Jaskier let the hood of Geralt’s cloak fall back on his shoulders. Geralt drew his sword and walked around the perimeter of the barn, stabbing the hay a few times before being satisfied that there was nothing in it except for maybe some mice. Jaskier, meanwhile, inspected the roof as well as he could through the gloom, and led Roach (she didn’t like his hands on the reins, but she still minded him) to a corner that was less likely to collapse. There was also some hooks, probably for farm tools; Jaskier hung the cloak on one, and brushed himself off absently.

“Well!” he said, and his voice rang slightly in the silent barn. “This was a lucky find!”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, come now, it’s not like there’s monsters _everywhere_. Maybe a bad harvest or some other financial trouble drove the original occupants away.”

“Mm.”

“I knew you’d see it my way. A bit of jerky for you, o White Wolf?”

Geralt glared at him, but Jaskier just grinned and tossed him the little pouch of dried meat. Geralt caught it easily, and finally stopped prowling to come to the corner.

Setting up camp and feeding Roach was done in silence; Jaskier had actually grown to appreciate silences like this, when they worked in perfect accord and nothing needed to be said because it already had been, years ago. A sullen drip in the opposite corner reminded Jaskier, and he took the bucket to the doorway and caught as much rain as he could, which was quite a bit. Drinking water for all three of them, and if—when—they needed more, they could get more.

Geralt was watching him again. Creep. But Jaskier was not unduly worried, or even self-conscious; this was just the way it was, sometimes. He liked attention anyway.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

Jaskier sighed theatrically and collapsed on his bedroll, yanking off his boots. “Here we go again. Look, Geralt, I don’t fear you because you’ve never given me reason to. You just need someone to make you wash your hands.” He leveled a stern glare at Geralt, who was frowning back. “You’re just a person, Geralt. You brood and you kill things and you don’t bathe, but you’re just a person to me. I may be an idiot and a coward, but you’re not scary.”

He only knew Geralt had moved because he himself was suddenly flat on his back, his head had banged into the floor, and Geralt was looming over him, his hands fisted in Jaskier’s jacket and holding him down. “Liar,” Geralt snarled, “I scare you. I scare everyone. You’re just hiding it.”

Jaskier scowled back, strangely calm, although the inherent closeness of their position was making certain parts of him very interested. “If you wanted to kill me, you would,” Jaskier retorted. “Why should I be afraid when I know you won’t hurt me?”

“I _did_ hurt you.”

“Yes, before we knew each other.” Jaskier wrapped his hands around Geralt’s wrists, mostly for something to touch. He was feeling quite floaty, and he couldn’t tell why. “You’re my _friend_ , Geralt. And don’t you start on your tirade about not wanting friends, if you didn’t you would have left me tied up somewhere for dead.”

Geralt stared at him some more, but Jaskier fancied he could see past the anger. Geralt was confused, and that was why he was angry. So Jaskier sighed again and let go of his wrists. “Can you let go? I can’t breathe with you smashing my ribs like this.”

Geralt did not let go for a long moment. Then he stood, again so fast and fluid that Jaskier almost didn’t catch it, and walked away, to the back of the barn. Jaskier sat up, coughing a little as his lungs expanded fully, and winced as he gingerly prodded the back of his head. Not bleeding. Just bruised, then.

Why was Geralt acting so strange? Ever since that accidental kiss… Jaskier felt himself begin to blush, and scowled until the feeling faded. Ever since that kiss, Geralt had been all over the place in his treatment of Jaskier. Why couldn’t they go back to the old way of things? Some exasperation, some affection, lots of irritation… and comfort. They had felt comfortable with each other. And now Geralt was confused about something and he wouldn’t even give a hint as to what. It was annoying. And it made Jaskier sad.

But there was no way he could get a straight answer with Geralt in this mood. So Jaskier ate his tiny dinner, dragged his blanket over himself, and laid down with his back to Geralt. He was too tired to even practice a song. No, not tired—depressed.

He couldn’t sleep, though. He was still half-awake, staring at the wall, when he heard the scuffle of Geralt moving his bedroll. Probably pulling it away from Jaskier—

Except then there was a puff of air right by Jaskier’s ear, and his back became very warm as Geralt laid down right next to him. Jaskier’s eyes widened, but he didn’t move. And after a while, Geralt’s breathing slowed and deepened, and Jaskier got the distinct impression that he was asleep.

So Jaskier decided it must be safe to sleep, too. And before he could finish that thought, he was out like a light.

~

This pattern continued for three more days; a tense dinner, Jaskier facing away, Geralt moving closer. On the third day, Jaskier woke to Geralt clamped against him, nearly burning-hot against his back, and Jaskier fitting quite nicely into the curve of his body. It was a delightful way to wake up.

Unfortunately, as soon as Geralt woke too, the Witcher scrambled to his feet and pretended it hadn’t happened.

The daytime hours of travel were boring, except when Jaskier got an idea and started improvising a song. Roach’s ears always twitched to listen; Geralt only broke in once, to correct Jaskier’s pronunciation of a place name. But other than that, they kept on, and got to the hills just before the food ran out.

There was a village that was afraid of something that was stealing baby livestock, and had just stolen two young children, mere babes, right from the cradles. They didn’t like Geralt, but they accepted his offer of finding and killing the creature, and since there was no inn, the headman of this tiny village allowed them to stay with him. Baths, which Jaskier was very glad of; and while the dinner wasn’t enough to stuff them all, it was certainly enough to make him warm and relaxed and sleepy. Geralt stayed mostly silent, and Jaskier ended up being translator yet again for his various grunts and cryptic answers. Finally, Geralt and the headman removed to another room to speak of the monster, and Jaskier was asked to entertain the rest of the household. He agreed readily enough, and felt the exchange of emotion, transmuting sleepy irritability into sleepy calm, taking in suspicion and letting out leniency. He wasn’t scared of it. Which was odd. But he sang a few lullabies so the children fell asleep in the laps of their mothers, and the adults smiled and thanked him, though they probably didn’t know why. He had eased their fear, just enough to let them sleep.

And he hadn’t taken a single drop of life force.

Geralt came back in time to see the headman’s wife offer Jaskier the use of the bedroom beside hers, which had belonged to their daughter before she married and left. Jaskier smiled and said yes, then realized Geralt was there.

“Oh, Geralt! Do you have your information?” Jaskier asked, taking a step forward; but the look on the Witcher’s face made him freeze. Not fearfully, but startled.

“Yes,” Geralt grunted. “I’ll start looking for clues tonight. Go sleep, bard.”

Jaskier nodded, and let the suddenly nervous wife lead him away. Why the anger? Why the regret? Surely not because he’d wanted to share again?

Jaskier got ready for bed in the tiny room and slid into it with no sense of relief. For once, he wanted a very certain body in his bed, and not for sex. How depressing. He must be getting old.

It was hard to sleep. The room was warm, the bed soft, but Jaskier couldn’t sleep. Something kept whispering to him… something… out there. In the village. Something with a life force that tasted like murk and blood. It had no emotions.

The sky was clear tonight; the moon shone silver and lit his room. He stared at his lute, leaned in the corner, and tried not to think about the thing out there.

The thing started singing.

It wasn’t really an audible noise. It was more in his head. But the song filled him with the sudden urge to leave the house.

No. He shouldn’t. It might be the thing Geralt was hunting. He should avoid it at all costs. And he should keep his twitching legs in bed. He shut his eyes tight and listened with his ears; no one in the house was stirring. But the singing was sinking into his soul, grasping his mind—slipping away. That made Jaskier’s eyes spring open. The singing grew louder, and he felt like someone was plucking at his hair, wrapping their hands around his throat, but they couldn’t hold him for long.

The monster couldn’t hold another monster.

Right, then.

Jaskier got out of bed, put on his clothes, made sure of his dagger, and tiptoed out of the room. The singing got even louder, ringing in his bones, but while loud sounds usually made his brain bounce, he stayed completely in control of himself. The hands were even more desperate, sliding off his sleeves and neck and face, unable to grasp him. He padded silently down the stairs in his boots worn down so much that they were little more than thick stockings. He followed the grasping hands out of the house, and down the road, keeping to the shadow, scanning everything, dagger in hand.

He could almost feel when Geralt spotted him. He hoped Geralt would hang back, let him find the creature, so they could know what it was before the Witcher could dispatch it. From the hot rush of anger behind Jaskier, he guessed that was an impossibility.

The singing was slowing, becoming notes he could easily pick out, a tune he could easily follow. He began to hum the tune back, so softly, as he followed the singing.

Past the last house. Towards the woods.

He hesitated on the edge of the road, and took the chance of looking behind him. There, a hulk of shadow with pale hair and yellow eyes, watching him intently.

Off the road. Into the woods.

He walked as softly as he could. The hands had stopped, but the singing was plucking at his attention. It could not grab him and make him come, but he could find it anyway.

And then he did, quite suddenly. A small stone temple, overrun by trees and mosses. But the singing was coming from inside. Jaskier swallowed hard, and realized what he’d done. He was alone, with a creature he didn’t know, and all he had was a dagger and his own power.

A hand on his back, soft and burning through the leather. He knew it was Geralt before the low whisper. “You found it. Good. Now go back.”

“No,” Jaskier whispered back. “It wanted me, specifically. What will happen if I just walk away? What if it chooses prey that can’t fight it?”

“You came willingly?”

“Yes. But you’re right, now I’m doubting the wisdom of that.” Jaskier stared at the temple, hands clenched tight. He should go. He wasn’t a fighter, he wasn’t a Witcher; he was just a bard, a human—no. A succubus. And the creature couldn’t control him.

His resolve hardened again. Pretend. That’s what he’d done all his life. Pretend to come close enough for death, and dodge at the last minute. He could do that.

The sickly, blood-tasting life force inside the temple drew him. So he stepped forward, into the glade, and approached the temple, ignoring Geralt’s hissed warning.

The creature came to the doorway. It had the shape of a naked woman, glowing softly in the moonlight, its hair silver and wild. Jaskier squinted, and could just make out eyes of golden-yellow.

 _Brother_ , the creature sighed.

Jaskier halted, surprised. “Um,” he whispered.

_Brother-to-be. How strange, that you answered my call. Is that your thrall, at the edge of the woods?_

“Oh. No. Um. How do you know me?”

The creature smiled. _Of course I know a fellow succubus when they enter my territory. Come in, brother and his lover. We shall… talk._

So Jaskier walked forward again, and heard Geralt follow.

The creature—succubus—moved into the shadows, and Jaskier took a deep breath before following her in.

The temple was actually quite clean. There was a skeleton in the corner, but it was an adult human, not a piglet or child. The succubus walked past the pews and stood before the altar, smiling as Jaskier and Geralt followed it slowly.

 _Put away your sword, Witcher. You don’t need it yet,_ the succubus whispered, and Jaskier realized that its voice was in his head.

“What’s it saying?” Geralt hissed.

“You don’t need your sword yet,” Jaskier replied, uncomfortable that Geralt couldn’t understand. “You can put it away.”

Geralt’s mouth thinned, but he let his sword down slowly, though he didn’t sheath it. The succubus laughed, a sound like many bells.

 _Oh, the Witchers, so careful, so suspicious. And yet you captured this one so easily._ The succubus tilted its head, and its smile faded. _You want the thing that’s been feeding on the village._

“Yes,” Jaskier replied, beginning to feel quite strange. “I assume that you are not the thing?”

_Of course not. I get my meals from the beds of men. I haven’t killed anyone in a while. They last longer if you don’t get greedy. But the thing that just came… it was a sorcerer, but it tried to banish me and got the spell wrong. Now it is an endlessly hungry creature… your Witcher may know its name._

Jaskier relayed this all to Geralt, who frowned harder, then snarled quietly. “Fucking sorcerers, trying to do too much at once,” he spat. “Maybe… an ogre? I can see how the spell could twist that way.”

 _Not an ogre,_ the succubus insisted. _Ogres are too heavy._

Jaskier repeated this, and Geralt glared at the succubus. “Well, what’s your guess, then?” he snapped.

 _A snake. A giant serpent that is growing with every meal. Soon it will be big enough to eat a grown human._ The succubus laughed again; Jaskier thought it sounded hollow. _But of course it isn’t truly solid, as I am not. But you, brother-to-be… you might be able to do something about it._

“But I’m not a monster hunter!” Jaskier protested, alarmed. Geralt stared at him with alarm of his own, but Jaskier didn’t notice. “I don’t know how to kill a normal snake, let alone a giant half-intangible one!”

 _Are you not half-and-half yourself?_ The succubus retorted. _A drop of your blood in the serpent’s mouth, the right spell, and it will die. I can’t do anything because it fears me, but you, half its prey and half immune, you can kill it._

“The Witcher—” Jaskier began desperately, but the succubus cut him off with a sharp gesture of impatience

_He is only a Witcher! He could kill it, yes, but it would take weeks for him to heal from the wounds he would receive. I will tell you a spell I know that can unravel the creature, and then you must go slay it. If you don’t, it will devour the village._

Jaskier wanted to beg for the succubus to tell Geralt the spell, to let _him_ be the killer of the beast—but the succubus was staring him down, and Jaskier was only a human.

“Alright,” he said. “What is the spell?”

~

“This isn’t going to work.”

“We can at least try.”

Geralt and Jaskier were sitting just outside the village boundary, near where the succubus said the serpent lived. Jaskier was hugging himself, trying not to shiver. Geralt was scanning the woods and hills with an air for frustration. The succubus had said neither of them would see it until the spell was spoken, but Geralt didn’t trust monsters. Jaskier did. Well. Just this once, he did.

A crackle in the grass. Jaskier’s head shot up, and his eyes widened. The succubus had been wrong.

The serpent was almost as thin as mist, but its eyes were copper and shone in the dark. Its head was fully the size of Jaskier’s, and it moved slowly. It didn’t seem to have noticed them.

Though his knees shook, Jaskier stood and took a step toward it.

The serpent paused, and raised its head, turning to look at Jaskier. He took another step towards it, and said, “Alright, foul beast. You may as well come at me. A good stab through your eye and you’ll be down.” He was distantly proud of how his voice only shook a little.

The serpent opened its mouth, and two fangs were let down, hooked and ready. Jaskier gulped, trying to hold to the memory of the succubus saying, _Its poison is only for mortals. Brother-to-be, you are no mortal. It will weaken you, but you will bounce back._ He will bounce back. He just needed to get some of his blood in its mouth…

He had a terrible, horrible idea. But the serpent was slithering towards him, hissing, and he didn’t have time to think. He slashed his palm with his dagger, rubbed his blood all over the blade, and when the serpent lunged, he jabbed his dagger into its mouth and up through the roof, skewering it and barely missing the fangs on either side of his wrist. It shrieked, as his blood pooled in its mouth; its head wrenched, and he almost fell, but Geralt was there, catching him, and as the serpent wrenched the other way, flailing, Jaskier yelled out the spell, feeling his own terror become Power as it passed his lips, steaming in the cold air.

The serpent froze, shuddered all over, and went limp. One fang caught on Jaskier’s hand, and as he yanked his dagger free, the venom entered the wound.

“Oh dear,” he said faintly. And then he passed out.

~

He woke up in the little room in the headman’s house, both of his hands bandaged tightly and the taste of rosemary on his tongue.

Geralt was sitting in the chair beside his bed, glaring at the multitude of flowers on the tiny table. Jaskier just looked at him for a moment. He looked different, cleaned up and without armor. Sunlight caught in his white hair, reflected from his golden eyes, a warmer, safer shade than the succubus. Jaskier wondered how many sonnets to Geralt’s beauty he’d have to write for Geralt to get the message.

The Witcher finally noticed that Jaskier was awake, and his attention snapped away from the flowers. “How do you feel?” Geralt asked bluntly.

“A little woozy,” Jaskier confessed, “But not sick, and not like I should lie in bed for days on end. How fast do you think my hands will heal?”

Geralt relaxed a little. “The fang only grazed you; it was the venom that was a danger. That healed… faster than expected. But you slashed one of the arteries in your palm, so that will take a long while to heal.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier closed his eyes, frowned, and reached… there. His own life force. Swollen and disgusting from feeding off those bandits two weeks past. But he wanted to try something.

Very carefully, he moved his arm to rest his hand on his stomach. Even more carefully, he drew up a silver line of life, and sent it into the wound on his hand. It couldn’t “heal” him, not like magic; but he could make life happen faster in his palm. Instead of waiting for the usual slow leech, he sped up the growth of skin and muscle, fixed the veins, and gave himself an immense headache. He wasn’t ready to try that. But if not now, when?

Finally, he sighed, opened his eyes, and grinned at Geralt. “Will you check my bandages, please?” he asked innocently.

Geralt eyed him sternly. “No,” he said. “Wait until the herbalist returns. If you’ve managed to heal yourself, though, you fucking idiot...”

Jaskier laughed, and then he couldn’t stop laughing, and then he was crying. Geralt helped him sit up and gave him a cup of water, and the sobs turned into hiccups.

“I… I guess being a monster has advantages,” Jaskier whispered unsteadily, and gave another sob.

“Drink your water, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, smoothing the hair back from Jaskier’s forehead. “And then go back to sleep.”

Jaskier nodded and obeyed.

The next time he woke, the pile of flowers was even bigger, and it was one of the daughters of the headman who was watching him. She jumped from her chair and ran out the door, yelling “Papa, papa! He’s awake!”

Geralt came in first, of course, and then the headman. Jaskier managed to smile, though the headman looked uneasy. “Well,” Jaskier said, “That was enough adventure for a week, I think.”

“Aye,” said the headman. “You, uhh, healed up fast.”

“Oh, I always have,” Jaskier lied with another smile. Very carefully, he nudged the headman into being relieved that he wouldn’t have to act as host to a Witcher and an injured bard much longer. “Runs in the family, I suppose.”

The headman nodded, then pointed at the flowers. “Our ladies and lasses send their thanks.”

Jaskier grinned truly this time. “Ah ha! See, Geralt? You’re not the only one who excites passion in young ladies of quality!”

The headman laughed, and Geralt gave a rare smile. Jaskier beamed.

~

Only three days later, the bard and the Witcher left the village, with provisions, a little coin, and an unusual amount of thanks for Jaskier. Apparently Geralt had let it be known that Jaskier had slayed the beast, and they’d both been teased mercilessly about it: Geralt, for not having another battle worthy of song, and Jaskier, for having to write about his own exploits now. Jaskier had laughed it off. Geralt had just looked inscrutable.

And then they went on their way again, through woods that no longer seemed so frightening. Jaskier composed a song about escaping a succubus, but nothing about the serpent. He didn’t feel right, claiming a kill for his own.

They paused in a clearing, and Jaskier set up camp while Geralt went off and hunted. He dragged back an entire deer, and Jaskier had to yell at him to take the beast elsewhere to gut it. Then he fetched a bucket of water and made Geralt wash his hands, and his arms for good measure. This was, for once, apparently not too much to ask.

They ate, and Jaskier laid down, and before ten minutes had passed Geralt flopped down behind him, back to back. Jaskier smiled, and let himself drift to sleep.

~

_The serpent was dead in the road, and his hands were bleeding heavily. Where was Geralt? He looked around, but there was no one—and when he turned back, the serpent had risen above him, maw gaping, his dagger still lodged in its head…_

“ _GERALT!” he screamed, as the serpent struck._

~

He woke up gasping, sweating, twitching with the urge to run, but there were arms around him, holding him tight to a chest he vaguely recognized, and Geralt’s voice murmuring, “It’s alright. It’s alright. I’ve got you, you’re safe. It’s alright, Jaskier.”

He sobbed himself to sleep again, clinging to Geralt’s shirt.

~

The nightmares grew less frequent as they went. Another striga. An ogre. Some humans pretending to be devils to get back at a man who owed them money. A sorcerer who’d decided that the best way to make the citizens bow to him was to summon a minotaur, which he’d promptly lost control of.

They started getting one-bed rooms at inns, Geralt said to save money. Jaskier wondered if he just felt responsible and wanted to be there if Jaskier woke up sobbing again.

But then it wasn’t his own nightmares.

The dreams of others started invading his head at night. After a good, vigorous night of singing so loud the entire building shook, the dreams were usually fairly calm, if disturbing in the fact that _they weren’t his_ ; but if he slipped, or couldn’t hit the joy of performance right, or a barfight broke out despite his best efforts, bad dreams surrounded him. Sometimes he “walked” into dreams where the person was having sex with him, and while it was flattering after a while, it still made him feel sick and… a little unclean. Like he’d been embarrassed in public, or violated in some way. Which he hadn’t been, they were just dreams, but they still made him unhappy.

He was thinking of this the morning they left an inn and a herald on a glossy stallion approached them and said, “The king commands you to join him tonight at his son’s birthday feast.”

Geralt looked at the two knights who had come with the herald, and said, “Alright.”

Jaskier wrung his lute-case’s band with both hands, but smiled when he felt attention shift to him. He opened his mouth to speak, and the herald cut across him with, “You’re not invited, bard.”

Jaskier’s mouth snapped shut. Geralt narrowed his eyes.

“There’s tales of you,” the herald said in foreboding tones. “And not good ones. Witcher only.”

Jaskier smiled and bowed with a flourish. “Fair enough. Have a good time, Geralt. Kiss a few wenches for me.”

Geralt looked like he wanted to say something, but Jaskier had already turned away and was walking back to the inn. Maybe he could buy a drink and keep in a corner until he was less hurt. Not that he _wanted_ to be seen in a court in stained satins with muddy boots; he just… didn’t like being snubbed.

Was this how his brothers at the academy had felt when he was chosen to do the final song almost every night? No wonder they had driven him out like that.

After his pint, when he was sure Geralt had gone, Jaskier sauntered out to a tailor’s shop and plunked down enough money for an entire new outfit. The tailor gladly showed him to a fitting room. It didn’t take long; he was promised a new suit in three days. He smiled, thanked the tailor and his assistants, and strolled off to get some new boots.

He spent quite a bit of money on clothing, not just fancy silks, but also some good tough working-man’s clothes, things that would stand up to life on the road. He scolded himself for that, but it was unnervingly easy to push the scolding away.

He finished his round of purchases and… didn’t know where to go from there. They’d settled payment with the inn. Where to now? He wandered the city, looking at the sights, visiting various markets, manipulating emotions around him without thinking… making thieves leave him alone, easing tempers before there were fights…

And then a couple knights came around the corner and grabbed him.

“King wants to see you,” the one on the left said shortly, and they both hustled Jaskier to a wagon drawn by two very large horses. Jaskier went without protest, though he did feel a little strange about this. Why take him separately from Geralt? Why split up the Witcher and his bard?

He didn’t ask. He didn’t really want to know the answer.

It was a boring ride up to the castle, with the knights watching him at all times. He looked around at the buildings, as they passed through the various strata of society, and the people, who all seemed to look at him warily. He hummed a little as they went, until the knight on the left snapped, “Shut up.”

The castle was nice enough, but the halls he was propelled down didn’t look like the kind casual visitors would stroll along. It was almost a relief, really.

And then he was shoved into a room and the door was slammed shut behind him.

This room was small and sparse, with a table and two chairs in the middle, and a splendid liquor cabinet. Jaskier brightened and strode over to pour himself some wine. He hadn’t had decent wine in a very long time, and he couldn’t wait to see what kind of horse piss the king would leave in a servant’s room.

It wasn’t horse piss. It was actually quite good. Jaskier paused, and sipped more slowly. Yes, it really was quite delicious. There was a hint of rosemary on his tongue. He frowned, and set the glass down. Rosemary? Why did that seem so familiar…?

His stomach twisted. He let out a tiny “eep!” of fear, and staggered to the table, bracing his hands on it and trying to breathe calmly. Vomiting on the king’s furniture? Very rude. Why did his stomach rebel, though? It was just wine!

Wasn’t it?

The part of him that had taken on some of Geralt’s paranoia suddenly seized on that thought. The taste of rosemary was even stronger, now. Was it poison? What kind of poison would taste like this? Why would they leave out poisoned wine in a room with dust in every corner? Not that the bottle and glasses had been dusty, but—

Oh.

He turned his head and spat, and his spit was blue-black and not at all the consistency of wine. But the taste of rosemary lessened, and his stomach settled. He started at the little splatter on the bare stone floor, breathing heavily. Something… in that wine. How had he guessed it? How had he rejected it so swiftly and neatly? He would definitely have to ask Geralt. Maybe he’d have an idea.

The door opened again, and three men entered the room.

Jaskier snapped up straight, and smiled charmingly at the man with the crown. “Your majesty! An honor to meet you, sire!”

“Shut up,” the king snapped.

Jaskier blinked, but kept his mouth shut.

“Well, sire?” whispered the man on the left. “He isn’t dead.”

“Shut it, Lucius,” the king snarled quietly, and turned to the third man, who happened to be Geralt. “So? What’s your explanation, Witcher?” He gestured sharply at Jaskier, who was very startled. “Why do you drag this… _monster_ around with you?”

Jaskier blinked again. Then… he began to be angry.

“He’s not a monster,” Geralt replied heavily, and with an air of reluctant patience. “He’s a bard, a human.”

“Then how did he know about the poison?!”

“Oh. So it _was_ poison.”

The king rounded on Jaskier, mouth open to shout—but then he froze. Jaskier wasn’t sure what his face looked like, but his fists were clenched and he wasn’t sure why but he wanted nothing more than to kill this son of a bitch.

“Tell me, sire, did you also try to poison the esteemed Witcher?” Jaskier mocked. He could feel the fear in the two human men; he fed it with his own anger, and sapped their strength recklessly. “Do you get off on killing humble visitors? Or do you truly think so little of anyone who you think isn’t normal that you don’t mind killing them? Just one more body to wipe off the floor. Just one more casualty in your war against everyone you don’t like.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said in a low, warning tone.

“Let me have my fun, Geralt.” Jaskier smiled, as nastily as he could, and Lucius whimpered. The king was cowering now. “Look at you now, sire. Terrified of one little bard. You know, I have this friend who told me that humans can be even worse monsters than the creatures themselves. The wyvern kills sheep to eat; you, my fine fellow, kill your sheep because it pleases you.”

“Jaskier, that’s _enough_.”

Jaskier blinked, and eased back on his heels. The king took a shaking breath to respond—

And Geralt punched him neatly, knocking him out cold. Lucius got a kick in the balls before he went down too. Jaskier couldn’t help it, he had to laugh, all his anger draining away. And when Geralt strode across the room to grab his hand and drag him to the door, he went willingly.

The knights tried to stop them leaving, but Geralt was faster, and then they were running to the hall, skidding around a corner and dodging guards and knights and residents alike. It was a fantastic whirlwind of flight, and Jaskier found himself grinning as Geralt flung open a side door and they pelted out into the stableyard. Roach greeted them with a neigh of excitement; Jaskier skidded to a halt beside her and threw her blanket and saddle over her back. Geralt grabbed the bags and clipped them on, then slapped Roach’s rump. With a toss of her head, she bolted for the open gate, and the two men raced the other way, to another door.

Once the door was slammed shut behind them, Jaskier laughed, breathlessly. Geralt glared at him, and Jaskier laughed again. “Thank you for your excellent timing, Sir Witcher!” he said loftily, snagged Geralt’s hand, and brought it to his lips for a courtly kiss.

Then, as he straightened, he realized what he’d just done.

Geralt stared at him, wide-eyed, jaw clenched. Jaskier’s smile faded quickly, and he let go of Geralt’s hand. Oh no. Now what?

A frozen moment, as they stared at each other. Jaskier caught his breath, and his heart slowed, but he was still afraid. He realized, with a nasty jolt, that he could not feel Geralt’s emotions. He could feel his life force, burning white-hot and too dangerous to touch; but no emotions. There was nothing there to read; nothing to manipulate.

Jaskier took a tentative step backwards.

Geralt didn’t come in too fast to see. But he did come in too fast to react, grabbing Jaskier’s arms and slamming him back into a wall—and kissing him, hard and desperate.

His mouth was very warm.

Jaskier had barely registered that it was actually quite a nice kiss for the circumstances when Geralt backed off (he didn’t let go though).

“I—am sorry,” Geralt gasped. He looked dazed… and afraid.

Well, there was only one way to fix that.

“Don’t apologize,” Jaskier snapped irritably, “Kiss me again!”

Geralt grinned suddenly, and did so. It was even better, because Jaskier was expecting it. Somehow Geralt’s hands slipped from Jaskier’s arms to his waist, and Jaskier’s hands wound up tangled in Geralt’s hair. The only sour note to this magnificent experience was the fact that there was shouting getting closer.

Geralt finally pulled away again, despite Jaskier’s little mewl of protest. “We’d better run some more,” he said.

“Fine, but you have to kiss me again when we’re out of here.”

~

It was quite fun, laying low in the countryside. Jaskier slipped back into the city to pick up his new clothes and boots, and managed to slip back out without anyone calling the guards. Once Geralt had found Roach, chewing placidly on some grass about a mile away from the city, they went on their way again.

Jaskier composed a ballad about the escape, of course. But he left out the kiss. Some things are just too personal for words.

(Besides, Geralt might stop kissing him every night, and then what would be the point of that brag?)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments = Life, Love, and Happiness!
> 
> Also this took such a long time and I'm so mad at it that I am willing to write a second part and make this a duo or series or whatever


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